IMPORTANT: The following is intended for the use and viewing of approved persons only and may contain information that is confidential, privileged or unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with low self-esteem, no sense of humour or irrational religious beliefs. Any dissemination, distribution or copying of this work is not authorised (either explicitly or implicitly) and constitutes an irritating social faux pas. Unless the word ‘absquatulation’ has been used in its correct context somewhere other than in this warning, it does not have any legal or grammatical use and may be ignored. No animals were harmed in the creation of this and a minimum of Microsoft software was used. Those of you with an overwhelming fear of the unknown will be gratified to learn that there is no hidden message revealed by reading this warning backwards.
Welcome to my Journal
Hello and welcome to my old journal—version two. It’s been replaced by a newer, shinier third version, but if you’re interested in what I did between the 26th of February, 2000 and the 15th of October, 2008—this is where you’ll find it (at least until I’ve migrated it to journal3).
Search the Journal
View complete journals
View the highlights
View a summary
Various other links
Contact and Copyright
This site has been designed to accommodate all users and all browsers. View this site’s accessibility statement.
Please Note: All dates use the logical DD-MM-CCYY (day-month-year) format, and NOT the backwards American style. 01-03-2001 would be the first of March, and not the third of January.
’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left, as strikes the Player goes;
And he that toss’d Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop’t we live and die,
Lift not thy Hands to it for help—for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
- 122,082 -